


tinkers, tailors, soldiers, spies

by aut0_resp0nder



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Study, and therefore know how to write about michigan, first of all i said so, location study, second of all i live in michigan, they live in michigan because, thos fuckin...strilondes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 09:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aut0_resp0nder/pseuds/aut0_resp0nder





	tinkers, tailors, soldiers, spies

the street that the strider-lalondes lived on was situated in a neighborhood that was slightly sketchy---at best. the birch and aspen trees formed a tight canopy over the whole tangle of roads that made it up, and the asphalt that formed main street was so pockmarked with potholes (and absent of storm drains) that you could drive down it two weeks after a rainstorm and still skid through puddles the size of dinner plates. the road was lined by the run-down derse high school, a daunting and tall building of weathered stone and purple trim, and a laundry list of businesses with cracked windows and sagging storefronts. a coffee shop with it’s door plastered in posters advertising poetry slams and open-mic nights, a pizza-by-the-slice with a chimney belching pepperoni-scented smoke from the back, and a seedy grocery store that was preceded by drooping awnings and a sliding glass door coated in years-old grime. the flagpole in front of derse high loomed over the school’s entrance like a giant sewing needle, the rippling michigan flag at the top of it boasting faded colors as it flapped, fraying, in the hot and humid august breeze.  
the strider-lalonde house itself was no different than the rest of its surroundings. it was battered and sloppily covered in cracked white paint, a solid oak door barring the overcast sky from entry. the roof was missing shingles and the doorknob was missing from the side door, and inside the house the wooden floor was warped from the wet summer heat. dave’s bedroom door never sat quite exactly right in it’s frame, rose’s window never fully locked. roxy’s closet lightbulb was perpetually burnt out. dirk and hal’s attic bed creaked endlessly, as both of them shifted while they slept. the chrome turntables sitting in a place of honor in dave’s room were probably the most expensive thing in the house---including dirk’s computer, the television, and the radio. textbooks littered the bookshelves; psychology, programming, music theory, addiction help. the porcelain sink was stained bubblegum pink, ruby red, tangerine orange and pastel lavender with cheap dollar-store hair dye, and the toothbrush holder, instead, held mascara wands and several half-used tubes of night-dark lipstick.  
it didn’t storm often where they lived, nestled in the crook between the city of detroit and the shore of lake st. clair, but when it did storm, the whole family feared for that house. none of them liked the rain that much, anyway, except for rose. roxy would sit, a blanket loose around her shoulders, the light from her phone throwing her face into sharp relief as the very foundation of the house shook from the force of the wind outside. the twins, sequestered away up high in the precarious attic, sat crammed into the bottom bunk like sardines with each other and dirk’s orange duvet cover, listening to the rhythmic pounding of the bullets of rain on the thin roof, each thinking separately of the small sound it makes when you step on a mayfly. rose sat in silence in dave’s room while dave tightened the soft grip of his headphones over his ears and turned the volume of his music to maximum, ignoring the vibration of the walls and the steady dripping noise where the cold water was leaking in along the seams of the basement windows.  
rose always did the laundry like clockwork, flitting from room to room like a startled sparrow, gathering creased bed sheets and softly crumpled t-shirts from her siblings’ bedrooms. roxy’s room first, every saturday morning, rose pads in barefoot, sidestepping her sleeping sister atop the ratty mattress. she swept roxy’s garish clothing into her arms, the dark jeans and light shirts and mismatched socks. dave’s room next, she opened the creaky and shifting door to the sight of her brother not-quite-asleep in his desk chair, slumped over his turntables. she put down the clothes she’d taken from roxy, swapping them for dave’s underarms as she dragged him unceremoniously from the high-up chair to his unmade bed. she unplugged his headphones and tossed a blanket on him before quickly toeing off his tennis shoes and retrieving the bundle of roxy’s clothes. she added a select few of dave’s shirts to her pile before leaving. she saved dirk and hal’s room for last, always, if for no reason other than the fact that the twins were always up at the crack of dawn, thus making a quick in-and-out trip impossible; one of them always needed “a lady’s opinion” on something or another. they seemed to argue constantly. sure enough, as rose slipped up the stairs and into their room, they were both on the verge of raising their voices to each other--about what, rose never had any idea. she staunchly refused to answer their queries as she circled the room, picking up shirts and towels the way a bird pecks at its food. the twins both called out for her as she left, closing the door behind her.


End file.
